


Weighted

by amireal, tiamatv



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bunker Fic, Charlie is a good bro, Cuddling, Frottage, Human Castiel (Supernatural), M/M, Porn with Feelings, Snuggling, bed sharing, blankets are a girl's best friend
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-07
Updated: 2020-10-07
Packaged: 2021-03-07 16:15:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,838
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26870488
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amireal/pseuds/amireal, https://archiveofourown.org/users/tiamatv/pseuds/tiamatv
Summary: Sleep is a precious commodity among hunters and former Angels of the Lord, but for such a simple concept, all of the ways it can go wrong are multitude and complex. Sometimes the simplest solutions--a weighted blanket--work the best.Castiel and Dean are certain to find ways to make it more complicated.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 40
Kudos: 335





	Weighted

**Author's Note:**

> Ami: So uh, hi everyone who subbed to me several years ago for a totally different fandom. Uh. Hope this works for you too? It's Very Me to finally start posting in a fandom that's 15 years old with only 7 episodes to go.
> 
> Timeline: It's sometime after Charlie becomes a full time hunter, Cas is human for REASONS, there's plenty, feel free to choose your own.
> 
> Tia: okay, so it's been nearly twenty years since I cowrote something in this way, and I forgot how much fun it was. PB Server, clearly you are bringing back the joys of fandom for me! 
> 
> I'm not sure _how_ we ended up in cuddle-smut when the original concept was so completely sweet and innocent... but I'm not sorry. These boyos deserve it, and I'll never believe they don't. And now I have to go hide and start catching up on Promptober and sleep, again, respectively!

Castiel has always been slightly in awe of Charlie. Her bright intelligence and genuine caring is easy to see, even without his angel senses.

Charlie has a way about her: she fixes problems before most people even realize they're there. Castiel has seen her do it for Sam and Dean on multiple occasions. When it finally happens for him, though, the warmth of friendship that comes with it is nearly overpowering.

He doesn't know it's going to happen until she drops something warm and heavy over his shoulders, draping it over his arms--and it feels like his wings.

Castiel has no control over his reaction. His throat closes up; he hunches in at the sudden, shocking comfort of it. He had forgotten this kind of comfort.

"Did I do something wrong?" Charlie asks, her eyes already wide with worry when Castiel finds himself speechless at his gift. To his embarrassment, for a moment he can’t even thank her.

Tears come too easily now, and he's heard they make people uncomfortable, so he swallows them. "No. No, it's wonderful," he rasps.

"Okay, why's Castiel wearing a comforter?" Dean demands.

Charlie sniffs in Dean’s direction, but Castiel can hear the laughter in it now. "If you're not nice to me, handmaiden,” she announces, haughtily, “you'll never learn the glory of sleeping squashed!"

"Is that like the reverse cowgirl?" Dean asks.

Castiel blinks. "Isn’t that a sex position?" What does that have to do with blankets?

Silence answers him. He realizes that they're both staring at him. 

“How…?” Dean asks, and then trails off like he’s afraid of the response.

He’s being ridiculous. "It was in one of your movies, Dean," Castiel grumbles.

Charlie mutters, "Huh, I didn't realize you could do that with tentacles."

Castiel frowns. "Tentacles?" Once again, they’ve lost him.

" _Aaaaand_ we're done here." Dean says quickly, turning on his heel to leave the room.

The blanket is not his wings. Castiel knows this, but it has weight and substance and comfort. He didn't used to sleep, either, so perhaps this is a comfort he needs; the nightly tossing and turning settles almost immediately as the blanket presses down on him.

A few nights of near miraculous sleep later, he keeps it wrapped around him as he shuffles towards the kitchen for a drink one evening before bed. Getting to sleep is still an issue, but he, thankfully, now stays asleep most of the time. 

That's when he hears the nightmare.

Dean's door is cracked open. It's probably the only reason Castiel hears the groan of "No..." through the hallway. It has a chewed-off, bitten quality, like it's pushed through clenched teeth; like it was never meant to be heard. 

Castiel would never dream of invading Dean's privacy, ordinarily. Also, he has no desire to be shot. But the second noise that he hears is pained, wordless, and too familiar. 

He carefully nudges the door with his foot and hastily stands back.

(There’s no sound of a gun being cocked.)

Instead, in the silence, Dean chokes back what sounds like a sob and it’s all the worse for being unexpected. Castiel’s heart fractures at the pain in it. "Dean," he says, whisper-quiet, from the doorway. Dean doesn't react and Castiel is too afraid to try harder. 

Instead he shuffles closer, biting his lip with indecision and then lets out a long breath. The blanket hanging heavily at his shoulders slips off with a simple tug. Dean remains asleep, caught up in whatever dark web his own subconscious has spun for him. 

Castiel gently, painstakingly, starts to roll the blanket up Dean’s body. 

At first he thinks Dean is going to lash out when the weight traps his feet, but he just shudders again and Castiel nudges the rest of the blanket up to his shoulders.

Dean's eyebrows waggle and twitch, and Castiel wonders if he's going to wake up. But Dean's sigh has so much relief to it when his shoulders sink in, under the heavy edge. Castiel knows just how that feels.

Castiel's not sure if Dean has started smiling by the time Castiel tiptoes carefully out of the room, but Castiel has. Just a little.

Unlike most nights, Castiel finds his sleep easily. Unfortunately, it's fleeting each and every time. By the time he passes out from sheer exhaustion it's close to sunrise. 

He wakes up to a shift in the atmosphere of the room. The door is open and a small shaft of light spills in from the hallway.

"Hey," Dean whispers. "It's almost noon."

Castiel considers burying his head in his pillow. Then he does more than consider it. He hears Dean huff, and he's not sure if it's with exasperation or laughter.

Then he feels a comfortable weight being settled on his shoulders, dense and safe.

"Dunno how this got into my room, buddy, but I'm pretty sure it belongs here," Dean murmurs. "It's nice, though."

Castiel isn't sure how to respond to that. Admitting anything means admitting that he not only entered Dean's room without permission (not a hard and fast rule, he's learned, but verboten when humans are asleep) but he also witnessed something deeply personal. Something Dean works very hard to pretend never happens.

Castiel blurts out "It reminds me of my wings," because... he's not sure why. Probably because he saw something so personal, and so he needs to give back something equally personal and painful, too.

He doesn't raise his head from under the pillow when he mumbles, "Not... actual wings. A blanket obviously can't manipulate time or space."

Dean laughs quietly. He doesn’t sound upset. "Yeah, Cas, I got that."

Castiel turns over and pushes himself up in bed. Somehow, laying curled up under this heavy, heavenly, miraculous blanket while talking to Dean about this is deeply unsettling.

"It helps me," Castiel explains, his gaze on the rumple of the top sheet over his knees. "It helps in ways I didn't expect, and I... thought it could help you in similar ways."

When he finally looks up, Dean looks like he sipped some whiskey gone bad, or that time when Castiel got the sugar and salt mixed up. Castiel braces for a growl or a snap when Dean's eyes drop. 

He doesn't expect his friend to mutter, his lips barely moving, "Yeah, uh. It... thanks. It helped."

Castiel smiles, and just like that, the fog of a bad night's sleep lifts. "You're more than welcome," he answers, softly.

"Yeah, well," Dean runs a hand through his hair, leaving it disheveled in a way that Castiel finds strangely fascinating. "Don't do that again. You look like crap."

A week later, Castiel does it again.

And again, two days after that.

Except this time, he stirs afterwards in the dark. Twitchy, uncomfortable strings of sleep give way to a feeling of... something. A hand, or a pressure. Something comforting, like a song he remembers on the radio (and there aren't many of those).

He wakes up to the blanket tucked around his waist.

By a few days later, it’s turned into a war of attrition that no one seems to be winning, and Castiel knows one of them is eventually going to snap.

What's the point in offering a good night's sleep when _someone_ just goes and undermines the whole thing by returning the favor two hours later?

The final battle happens a week later. Castiel should have expected the trap, he supposes, but he didn't actually think Dean would actually be willing to fake a nightmare. He should have known something was different--Dean’s so quiet, tonight, though he’s tossing with more violence than Castiel’s used to.

He stills in the same way at the pressure of blanket over his feet, though, so Castiel doesn’t think too much of it--until Dean's hand shoots out and grabs his wrist.

"Cas."

Cas nearly jumps. People are not supposed to be suddenly awoken from nightmares, or sleepwalking, he’s heard--

But there’s nothing about Dean’s expression that suggests he’s asleep. Not his open eyes, not his scowl, not the curl of his lip, and certainly not the way his brows are bunched together. Castiel might be tired, but he’s not stupid.

No one has ever accused Castiel of lack of perseverance, though, so he squints. "Do you talk to people in your nightmares?" he demands, archly.

Dean stares, looking vaguely thrown before his scowl reappears. "Uh. Actually, yeah, sometimes--nevermind. That's not important. Look, you can't keep doing this."

Castiel glares. He’s not intimidated by Dean Winchester, and he certainly doesn’t follow his orders when he thinks they’re ridiculous. "Then stop giving it back!"

Dean rolls his eyes. "For the love of all that--" He breathes out heavily and his shoulders drop. He waves a hand aimlessly at… nothing that Castiel can see. "Just get in the bed. I am too damn tired to do this right now."

Castiel blinks. "What?"

Dean moves his body to the side, and shifts the blanket that's only made it to his knees up the rest of the way to his shoulders. Then he pulls the mound of bedding towards him. "Get. In."

Castiel realizes an instant later what he’s doing: he’s opening up a place for Castiel to slide in. 

Castiel doesn't claim to know much about humans, but he doesn't think this is normal behavior.  
But there is a lot about Dean that doesn't fall under the bell curve of normal behavior (Sam has been teaching him statistics terms) that he's learned not to question. 

He settles a knee on the mattress, and pauses for long enough to make sure that Dean isn't going to do something strange--like crow and shove him off it. Castiel still doesn’t always understand human jokes. 

But Dean doesn't do any of that. He just flaps a hand impatiently, and Castiel carefully wiggles his way in.

Castiel has exceptionally few instances of sharing a space like this. The few dormitories he'd stayed in were a lot like the motel rooms Dean and Sam used, so the experience, while infinitely more human for him, wasn't new. And April... well, the less said the better, but he'd also been so exhausted that his sleep had been relatively hard and dreamless. 

So this, this deliberate moment of crawling into bed beside someone? It's new.

Dean seems to relax the moment he's sure Castiel is finally following his directions, body curving into an approximation of a sleeping stance while Castiel figures out where to put all his arms and legs. Eventually, Castiel winds up on his back, arms and legs stiff beside himself. It’s not particularly comfortable, but it’s not terrible.

"Roll over," Dean murmurs, sounding slurred, more than half-asleep already.

"Why?"

"Because you said it was about your wings."

Castiel doesn’t know how that makes him feel and he falls asleep before he figures it out.

Castiel is reasonably sure he dozed off with the appropriate space (is there such a thing? He thinks so) between him and Dean. But when he stirs, his cheek is warmer than the rest of him, and his fingers are tangled in cloth.

When he opens his eyes, he can count freckles under the line of Dean's jaw, under the delicate stubble.

It shouldn't be comfortable. It shouldn't feel good. For one thing, Dean's shoulder is bony.

But falling asleep with a heavy thing wrapped over him shouldn't feel good, either.

For a long moment he watches the rise and fall of Dean's chest, hypnotized. Sleep threatens to overtake him again and Castiel considers letting it. But Castiel watches Dean's chest take a much larger breath than usual and he panics, freezing briefly before shutting his eyes tightly

"Yeah." Dean rumbles and his voice seems to go through Castiel as well, where he's pushed up against Dean's body. "I'm still not awake enough for this."

"We could _not_ talk about it?" Castiel suggests. He's learned a lot of things from Dean and Sam over the years. A lot.

Dean grunts. "Sounds good." He shifts, and Castiel tries to raise himself away, but he's under the blanket and his body is sluggish with sleep. So he doesn't move as Dean's arm encircles him. "Go back to sleep, too damned early."

Castiel can't find an argument for that. So he goes back to sleep.

Castiel wakes up alone, but not upset. He's better rested than he's been all week. In fact he takes a few minutes to stretch his whole body, arching his back and straightening his arms out. It's one of those human experiences that he'd never be able to explain or understand as an angel. The stretch is so good he misses Dean shuffling back into the room. 

"Yeah,” Dean chuckles. “I hear that."

Castiel blushes bright red as he drops the stretch abruptly. "You're too damn perky."

"Can't help it." Dean wiggles, mimicking Castiel's stretch. It might be mocking, but Dean’s smiling. "Had a great night's sleep."

Castiel has no idea why he blushes at that, too. (He hasn't figured out blushing yet. It doesn't make any sense.)

But he crawls out of bed feeling warm and rested and safe, and for that alone, he'll tolerate some blushing. 

(And some annoying morning perkiness.)

Castiel remains that way--comfortable, relaxed, _ready_ \--for the rest of the day. Until he remembers, as he's heading to his room to change for bed, that the blanket is still in Dean's room. 

It should feel like a win. Take that, Dean, it's already there. Honestly, after the previous night's sleep, Castiel feels like he can take on anything, including one crappy night.

He waves 'good night' to Dean on his way to his room, cheerful enough despite the prospect of the night to come. Dean's smile from the morning, however, is nowhere in evidence now.

"Hey," he grunts. "Where the hell do _you_ think you're going, huh?"

When Castiel blinks, Dean rolls his eyes and gestures impatiently to the inside of his own bedroom, holding the door open.

Castiel blinks again. "Uh. Pajamas?" he says weakly.

Dean narrows his eyes. "I don't see you in here in ten minutes, I'm coming after you." There's an underlying threat of "and I don't care if you're naked." 

Not that Castiel cares about nudity, but most humans care quite a lot.

Castiel spends three minutes in his room with sweaty palms and a pounding heart and absolutely no idea what the hell is happening. But Dean has never not followed up on that sort of threat (well, any sort of threat, really) so Castiel changes and then, apprehensively, finds his way back to Dean's door.

Dean sighs and just points. "In."

Castiel pauses, shuffling, a little torn and Dean's stern facade visibly melts.

Dean steps closer to him, and his voice isn’t stern anymore. "Look, I just think only having one blanket is a dumbass reason for one of us to get a shitty night's sleep. Okay?"

Castiel can hardly argue with that. "Um. Yes."

Dean nods. "I slept pretty good last night. You?"

Better than in... well... since Castiel discovered sleep. He nods, not quite understanding.

Dean shrugs. "I'm okay with sharing if you are. And not that shitty weird who-is-better-at-being- miserable competition thing we had going on." His smile crooks up at the corners. "I mean. I tried to get you to just _take_ the damn thing back and you wouldn't."

For that, Castiel glares, but there's really not all that much heat behind it.

Dean winks and then climbs into bed.

Castiel follows, awkwardly.

Dean pauses. "Uh... You... Uh." He scratches his head, absent and sleepy, and it leaves him ruffled, softly towheaded again. "You got a side you like? Normally this one's mine," he points. "But, y'know. Your blanket. So."

Castiel pauses with one knee already on the mattress. "This is fine?"

Dean nods. "Okay. Cool."

That night, Castiel sleeps immediately--sweetly, dreamlessly. He tries to be polite: it’s his last thought before he dozes off, that he really should keep the distance between them. 

As if in utter rebellion, he wakes up with his nose buried in the notch of Dean's neck.

But Dean's arm is around him, his head bent in towards Castiel's, and his nose is in Castiel's hair. He's still asleep. He doesn't seem to mind. 

And night after night, that’s just how it goes.

Mornings are far less awkward than Castiel assumes they should be. But then again, Dean has spent a large chunk of his adult life sleeping in the same room as other people.

Still. Castiel knows this isn't quite the same thing, but he feels far too good to think too hard about it. Dean appears to have assumed negotiations are closed and Castiel is content to let him. It takes a couple of days before Castiel stops falling asleep nearly instantly, and he has time to take in everything that is Dean and Dean's bedroom at night.

Castiel starts to notice things. He starts to notice a lot of little things. 

Like the way Dean curls towards him, like a plant to sun. Just sort of softly leaning into Castiel before he knows it's happening. Totally relaxed and asleep, a heavy and trusting weight. It’s almost as comforting as the blanket.

Like the way Dean’s breath sounds like the whole world is breathing, slow and sweet.

Like the tickle of someone else’s hair against Castiel’s cheek, or cloth he’s not wearing under his fingers, stretched over taut, sleep-warm skin.

It's... more than Castiel imagined it could be to be human

There's a gravity in the bed they share. At some point, their noses touch and Castiel has no idea why, or why it's so hard to pull away even when Dean's eyes blink open, soft and sleepy.

Dean murmurs “Hey,” and his breath is warm and whispery before his eyes drift closed again.

"Oh." Castiel breathes out. "Oh."

He doesn't want to leave. He doesn't want to go.

But he understands, now. Not Dean--he doesn't think he'll ever understand Dean. But why it's important to walk away from things that he wants.

He understands, because Dean isn't a thing. And Dean has not agreed to being watched like he is precious--because he is.

Castiel extricates himself from the nest of blankets and slips from their bed--he winces when he realizes his brain has already made these connections. Dean's eyebrows wrinkle together and his lips purse. Even asleep, eyes closed, he looks momentarily forlorn. 

Castiel almost goes back. He almost wraps himself in wings and warmth again. But he doesn’t look back as he leaves. 

He can’t.

He can tell that the first morning, Dean just assumes Castiel got up first. 

The second morning is harder. Dean shoots him these small, confused looks when no one else is around.

But by then, the not-talking-about-it precedent has been set, and Castiel uses it to his advantage.

The third morning, Castiel wakes up with his blanket back, and he feels terrible.

The fourth and fifth days Dean remains scarce: the most Castiel sees of him are a pair of legs sticking out from under or behind one car or another.

Charlie, the great and prescient Charlie, happens to them on the sixth day.

Castiel thinks things should have gone back to everything they were. There’s no reason why they shouldn’t. But he wakes up, now, at night, again. He feels smothered in the darkness, not wrapped in wings. 

There's no soft certainty of breath, anymore, or the way even Dean's vaunted memory foam bows just the tiniest bit towards his weight.

Castiel always goes back to sleep, eventually, but the toll on Dean is darker; he didn't realize it until they gather in the entryway to greet Charlie, and the lines he sees on Dean's face, tightening his eyes and his smile, are too familiar again.

Charlie grabs Dean by the ears to drag him down to her level and turns his head back and forth. "Handmaid," she announces, "this time sharing deal is clearly not working out for you. Luckily, your queen is here with your salvation!"

Dean blinks, whatever facade he's been putting up fractured in the face of, well, Charlie. "Time--what now?"

Charlie rubs her knuckles against Dean's hair and he only play-fights her off--they all know Dean Winchester isn't likely to be held down by any human, and most beings, if he doesn't want to be. "The blanket, you morons."

For a brief few moments, Castiel is mortified.

Charlie carries on like she hasn't just mortally wounded him. "Sam noticed you two were trading off, and I was like, dude! Just buy them a second one!"

The look he and Dean share over her head at that is... complicated.

Castiel looks away first. He has to.

Charlie goes on for a good five minutes about the hows and whys of her choice of weighted blanket for Dean. It's a darker color, forest green, a bit bigger and heavier for his size and weight, that kind of thing.

"Thanks," Dean says, a little too quietly. "Yeah."

He's probably embarrassed. Castiel feels terrible for him--guilty.

Castiel gives himself a good and firm pep talk. Charlie's gift to Dean is a good solution, and it gives Castiel the space he needs to handle whatever it is that's happening in his slow, stupid, overly emotional human brain.

That night, Castiel prepares for bed, like normal. Like before. He puts on the comfortable clothes. He pulls the blanket over the backs of his shoulders and goes for a warm, soothing drink, and then settles sitting down on the edge of his own bed.

He sighs.

It’s not like before.

Castiel looks up at the ceiling and asks himself, "I wonder if my father knew, when he created this world, the great many types of love that would come to be."

He doesn’t expect an answer by the time he slumps.

The door creaks open to a soft tap, but Castiel doesn't look up. He knows what he looks like: he has eyebags and his hair looks like it's developed its own centripetal spin. He's still sitting on the side of the bed, his blanket wrapped around his shoulders. He's bent and bowed; his elbows are resting on his knees.

He knows who's there.

When Dean shuffles closer, Castiel catches sight of that brand new forest green blanket thrown over his shoulder, draped over his hip and dangling past Dean’s knees.

They still haven't looked at each other by the time Dean sits on the edge of the bed next to Castiel.

Dean's throat clicks as he clears his throat twice, then mumbles, "Uh... you, um. Maybe wanna share?" and nudges the edge of the blanket over Castiel's thigh.

What? "I..." Castiel's voice is rusty as nails and his eyes look away sharply. "I don't know if that's a good idea." He reaches out with two fingers and tugs at the blanket over Dean's shoulder. "You have your own now, anyway."

"Yeah, I know, but..." Dean fiddles with the edge of the blanket, pushing it back and forth. "But, uh. I, uh. I guess... I guess it was a stupid idea." 

That should be that. That should be the end of it.

Dean looks like he's about to stand and go, but instead, his shoulders curl inwards. 

"Doesn't feel like my bed without you in it, though." 

Dean's staring down into his own lap, words barely making it past his clenched jaw. Almost like he can't believe he's saying it out loud.

Castiel breathes in sharply, his chest aching. 

He wants to hope. He wants to, but he knows what that gets him. 

Castiel stumbles on the words, but forces them out anyway. They've spent enough time not talking. "I care about you, Dean and I don't--I don't want you to hurt--but--" He doesn’t want to say it, but the honesty of it is what Dean deserves. "I can't hurt myself too. Anymore." Castiel stares up at the ceiling. "I'm going to want things you can't give."

Dean snorts. "'Cause you know all that much 'bout what I can't give." He nudges at Castiel's side--he might be trying for playful, but it's just a little too rough, knocking Castiel sideways.

Dean doesn't understand.

Castiel rolls his eyes, mild annoyance overtaking the sharp prickling in them. For the first time, he turns to glance at Dean. "You've been very vocal about it for as long as I've known you."

Dean shrugs; he doesn't pretend that isn't true. His fingers are still picking at the edge of the blanket, but he stills them and smooths it under his palms. It’s almost as if he’s… nervous?

"And you've been an angel for as long as I've known you. You sayin' people can't change?" Dean narrows his eyes. "'Cause I'm pretty sure I know a little more about what it is to be human than you do, buddy."

Castiel feels the bed move next to him and suddenly Dean's shin is pressed into the side of this thigh. He's turned to face Castiel more fully. Castiel looks up again, then. 

Dean feels incredibly, indecently close next to him. 

Dean reaches up and out, and, like he can't help himself, smooths a lock of hair that's sticking horizontally out behind Castiel's ear.

Castiel's eyes close without his permission, and he leans into the touch. It's small and simple. It’s achingly perfect in ways Castiel has never allowed himself to think about.

But he's thinking about them now.

"Dean..." he breathes out, disbelieving. Any moment now, Dean's going to pull away. It was just a casual touch. It shouldn't have meant anything.

Instead, the hand at his temple brushes in, not out. A fingertip skirts along Castiel's cheek--he already knows he's blushing, and he's not sure he cares. A careful, careworn thumb brushes the seam of Castiel's lips, and he hears his own gasp.

But he hears Dean's, too. The thumb doesn't move, resting there like it's seeking entrance.

Castiel kisses it, softly.

Dean breathes out a long, slow exhale that seems to last forever, but it feels very, very familiar against Castiel's cheek. He's so close. When did he get so close? 

"But maybe you can teach me a thing or two about bein' human, too, huh?" Dean whispers, and leans in to replace his thumb with his lips.

It's careful. So very careful. And beautiful. 

Shocked delight fills Castiel's chest and limbs; he feels untethered in the best of ways, with Dean's hands and lips gently holding him still.

They break apart just as softly as they came together. Smiling.

Dean tries for a grin, but it's too soft around the edges to count. He doesn't look away, but nudges the blanket over Castiel's thigh again. "So. Still think it's a bad idea?" he inquires. His hand settles atop the soft weight.

Castiel chokes out, "Oh, God, more than ever."

“Uh.” Dean blinks, then spits out a shocked laugh. "Good thing we're on the same page, then!"

They're both laughing at the insane tension, the insanity of their _lives_ , and Castiel isn't sure which one of them leans back in first.

The second kiss starts as shy as the first, a dry press of lips, noses bumping softly. It still accelerates Castiel's heartbeat.

Dean's lips are moist; Castiel's aren't, and he's afraid they probably taste like toothpaste. But Dean doesn't seem to mind.

Castiel supposes he should be shocked when Dean's hand slips back into his hair, but he doesn't think he's ever had his scalp touched before, and the delicate scrape of Dean's short nails raises goosebumps up and down his arms. He's not sure what to call the sound he makes into the kiss, but it makes Dean smile.

Castiel hands find themselves clinging to Dean's soft shirt--holding him close, making sure he can't move too far away when their lips part. Castiel’s lungs are heaving: he might actually be shaking. He can't stop smiling when Dean rests their foreheads together, even though all he wants to do is wrest Dean back to his lips.

"This okay?" Dean asks, while the hand in Castiel's hair cards through the strands carefully, coming to rest with a palm warm and dry against Castiel’s cheek.

Castiel laughs, shakily. "I think the expression is 'hell yeah?'"

Dean snorts, softly. "Maybe don't make it sound like a question next time." But he grins and leans back in.

Dean likes to touch, Castiel realizes. Castiel's face, his shoulders, his hair, one hand roving gently as they kiss. It's when Dean thumbs Castiel's chin and Castiel feels his own lips move with the motion, parting, that he realizes Dean likes to taste, too.

Castiel loses time to the feel of Dean's tongue softly seeking entrance to his mouth, and then its careful exploration. It's nothing like the last time he tried this. It's hot, delicious impulses that race down his nervous system and light up his entire body. It's low moans that reverberate through his chest as Dean agrees with Castiel's own groan. 

It's _everything_.

When Dean pulls away, a lifetime later, they're laying across the width of Castiel's bed, chests pressing tightly together, legs tangled gently.

Castiel's not exactly sure how they got there--he peeks over Dean's shoulder at where his own ankles are dangling awkwardly off the edge--but he's not exactly sorry about it, either. Then when he shifts to relieve some weight and _pressure,_ he's not sorry at all.

Castiel might have been, until recently, a virgin, but he's also millennia old, and he's not an idiot.

Dean's looking down at him, though, and he's not sure if the expression on Dean's face is embarrassment for the hot column that Castiel can very clearly feel against his thigh, or anticipation, or fear. "Uh..." Dean mutters, and Castiel thinks he's likely just as flushed as Castiel himself. "Sorry, should... too much?"

Castiel runs his hand down the planes of Dean's back, enjoying the play of muscle and heat that he can feel through the thin cotton. Dean hiccups in shock when Castiel's hand doesn't stop at the end of his shirt and instead runs straight over his ass and under his thigh until there's just enough leverage to pull at the back of his knee and--oh, there it is. Dean's leg finishes curling around Castiel's hip, knee pressing harder against the bed beside Castiel’s waist, and he ruts down against him: they meet hot and delicious in the middle.

"Damn," Dean mutters, and it's half a laugh. Castiel shoves upwards against him and they topple onto their sides. Dean's chuckle melts into a moan; that's even better.

Castiel heard Dean make those rough little sounds, when he was an angel. He never once considered what effect hearing them might have on _him,_ and in this instant, Castiel is blindingly glad for his humanity.

Suddenly, the only thing Castiel wants more than to keep rolling his and Dean's hips together in slow careful pushes is to taste that spot of skin just under the hinge of Dean's jaw. 

So he does.

It's salty and soft, even as his tongue catches on the slight stubble just showing.

Dean's entire body rolls towards him, and the leg tightens around Castiel as Castiel rides the perfectly formed thigh muscle wedged between his legs.

Castiel doesn't know where the instinct to bite comes from, but every other instinct tonight has pulled those lovely noises out of Dean. He closes his teeth gently on the long strap of muscle, and Dean's thigh jerks upwards, inwards. They end up with Dean on top of him again. The thick rub of muscle presses firmly enough against where Castiel is aching that he feels... oh.

Castiel lets his head fall back, but the sight of the soft purplish bruise he left on Dean's throat almost stops him.

Dean chuckles, softly. "Oh, I see how it is." 

This time, the arch of his body against Castiel's feels deliberate, and a temptation--enough of one that Castiel nearly forgets that the front of his pajama pants just felt the slightest bit... damp. "C'mere, buddy, you can't give me one of those and not let me give you one, too."

Dean surges forward, tilting Castiel’s head back just enough to get his mouth on Castiel's neck. At first it just feels odd, but that sensation is briefly overturned by sparking pleasure down Castiel’s spine, and then back up. Castiel’s hips roll sharply, and the throb of pleasure just from that swallows him whole. 

Then Dean bites down gently, rolling the skin between his teeth, _sucking_. With no permission from Castiel whatsoever, his entire body arches against Dean, and it’s delicious.

When Dean is finished with him, Castiel is beyond dazed and his entire body aches.

At some point, he ended up on top of Dean, and his friend--is that what they are, still? Castiel doesn't know, and he can't think about that right now--is grinning up at him, looking _exceptionally_ smug. He licks his lips, and it makes Castiel want to whine, thinking about that full mouth on his skin, the touch and tug of teeth. He may never be able to watch Dean eat again.

"Damn," Dean murmurs. "You're sensitive. _Damn._ " There's a hand on the small of Castiel's back, over his shirt--and then it's under his shirt, calluses scraping up his spine.

Castiel keens. He scrambles to get his hands under Dean’s shirt, running his own nails down his sides.

“Fuck,” Dean curses, and shudders. “Yeah, okay. So am I. “

Castiel suspects he should be embarrassed by the little patch of wet he can feel on the front of his pajamas. (Should he have worn underwear? He hadn't thought about wearing underwear. Does it matter that he's not wearing any?)

But nothing feels embarrassing, right now. Not Dean making a noise that somewhat resembles a squeal and twisting away when Castiel's nails scrape across a certain arc of his ribs. Not even when Castiel's arm gets caught in his sleeve while Dean is wrestling him out of his shirt.

There's laughter, light and free and contagious, and that's like a revelation.

Dean runs his full hand, palm flat against the skin, down Castiel's sides and then back up, barely skimming his nipples. It's another gorgeous and new sensation, but… puzzling.

Castiel looks down at himself, confused, but pleased. "I thought those were vestigial," he murmurs, then realizes it's the first time he's spoken in awhile.

"Nerd," Dean answers, fondly. He doesn't pinch--not quite--but there's a sort of _tweaking_ motion--

Castiel has no idea what that feeling is, but he would very much like more of it.

"C'mere" Dean murmurs and they're kissing again, only this time their bare skin is touching and it's, blasphemously, heavenly.

It's just their chests, but it seems like so much more.

Their arms hook around each other in an effort to pull each other as close as possible. Briefly, the sensations distract from the absolute _throbbing_ coming from within Castiel's pelvis.

When his arms come around Dean, Castiel finds his hand gripping into a thick curve of muscle that runs alongside Dean's spine, the bony arc of his shoulder blade like the elbow of a wing in Castiel's fingers. Holding their bodies together this way makes Dean choke and purr, and rut against Castiel's hip in a way that should not be as satisfying as it is.

But he's _proud_ of himself right now. Proud and gleeful; he's not experienced, he knows that, but Dean is. Dean, his Dean, is making small rough noises into his ear, and his whole back arches when Castiel thrusts back at him.

It's not exactly a chore, though, to help Dean make these sounds. Castiel’s own pleasure is secondary for long seconds at a time as Dean slowly comes apart, but it always comes back to him--because Dean _is_ more experienced at not being completely drowned out in pleasure.

There's a moment though, when Dean's hands stray from their current path of running up and down Castiel's spine--an amazing sensation really--and those clever fingers slowly start to edge their way under the elastic of Castiel’s pants. There’s the barest hint of a pause when Dean looks--no, feels--uncertain.

The first time, Castiel breathes through it, and Dean smiles. Castiel discovers that having his earlobe nibbled is quite nice. (Earlobes. _Earlobes_ , who would have thought?)

The second time, Castiel pauses. "Am... am I not... am I doing something wrong?" he asks, tentatively.

Dean blinks slowly, then quicker, as if reengaging part of his brain and his caresses shift into something that resembles a solid hug more than anything else. It still feels remarkably good. He shakes his head, quickly. "Oh. Geez, no. Sweetheart, no."

Castiel blinks. "Sweetheart?"

And that's when Castiel discovers that not only can Dean Winchester blush, but that it goes all the way down.

Castiel wanted to be stern with him--he doesn't like being lied to, not even for his own good, and especially not to spare his feelings--but the way that pink lights up the little freckles scattered along Dean's collarbone is delicious. He dips his chin to taste them, and one of Dean's hands settles into his hair again.

Dean chuckles, shakily. "It, uh... it ain't you."

Castiel raises his head, frowning, now. "I have watched enough TV to know that 'It's not you, it's me' is _never_ good."

"Not that kind of conversation," Dean says, seriously, to Castiel’s relief. Dean’s smile is still there, bright, but dimmed.

"Then what kind of conversation is it?"

Dean licks his lips. "It's the kind where I explain that this is important. To me."

Castiel waits.

Dean looks away. "And uh. Maybe." He clears his throat. "Maybe this isn't. I haven't. Um."

Castiel blinks, slowly, and raises a hand to feather his thumb along Dean's bright pink cheekbone. "If you think we need condoms," he suggests, tentatively, "I have some." Sam had made sure he was well-equipped. That had been a very awkward talk.

Dean chokes so hard that Castiel is worried for an instant that he's going to hit his head on something. "What the--"

" _But_ I really don't know if I'm ready for anything like that," Castiel finishes.

Dean's whole body goes limp. 

Or. Most of him goes limp. 

"Thank... uh, yeah. Thank someone." Dean’s smile is full of sunshine and a strange, bright relief. "I, uh... yeah. Me neither."

A thought occurs to Castiel--probably later for him than if anyone else was in this position with Dean. "Oh," he breathes.

Dean raises an eyebrow, as if to dare him to say it out loud.

Dean forgets just how blunt Castiel can be.

"This isn't something you usually do." With other men. After all, Castiel had said it himself right at the beginning: he thought he was going to want things that Dean couldn't give him.

Dean looks like he's struggling with the answer--why that would be, Castiel's not sure: it's a simple observation, isn't it? But finally, Dean replies, "Um... no."

Castiel's stomach twists, going cold, but before he can pull back, Dean's hand is on the arch of his jaw. He smiles. "But you're really making me want to learn, Cas."

He doesn’t look unhappy. He doesn’t _feel_ unhappy.

The gravity, the inevitable, unstoppable pull that Castiel had first noticed all those nights ago is back, as Dean doesn’t look away. It pulls them both into soft kisses that say so much more than the words that are stuck in Castiel's throat can--one, two, and then Castiel stops counting

"Cas," Dean murmurs into his skin. "You make me feel brave."

Castiel blinks, and they're close enough that if they were any closer, their eyelashes would brush. "Brave?" he asks, and drops a kiss on the arc of Dean's upper lip. "What do you have to be afraid of? I'm right here."

The urgency is gone, but the electricity isn't. Dean's chuckle is quiet and rueful. "I hope you never figure out how fuckin' terrifying you are, buddy."

Castiel wrinkles his nose. "That's... very contradictory."

Dean smirks. "Welcome to humanity."

Castiel raises an eyebrow. "Despite the incredibly inconvenient parts, I think I might like it here."

"They're not _always_ inconvenient," Dean answers, pressing his thigh inwards, and up.

Castiel shudders at the reminder of exactly how hard and aching he is. "I do believe the appropriate expletive here is: Fuck."

Dean's grin turns sharklike. "Not yet, but I have some ideas."

Castiel's world tilts as Dean rolls them until Castiel is on his back and Dean is hovering over him again. "So... this is mostly gonna be based on what I've figured out on my own,” Dean announces, “but I think we'll do okay." And then Castiel’s pants are unceremoniously yanked off.

Dean stands up, and Castiel’s sweaty skin prickles in the air briefly until Dean returns, also pantless. But there’s only a hint of uncertainty in the goosebumps rising along Castiel’s skin.

Castiel didn't have the chance to look, before, when he was so busy _feeling._ He looks his fill now, and his mouth waters. (Why is it doing that? He's not hungry. Or he's not that kind of hungry.) His lips part, and they stay that way as he stares.

He's seen nakedness, of course. He's seen erections. Nothing that Dean has, nothing that he is, should be new to him.

It's all brand-new, and he wants to touch and taste and feel it all.

Dean blushes again under his scrutiny, and the flush tints his breastbone. "Yeah, yeah," he murmurs. "Take a picture--” he pauses as Castiel opens his mouth: can he? He would like that... “Wait, no, seriously, don't. It's just an expression."

Oh. That’s disappointing.

Castiel takes a moment to right himself on the bed: feet hanging off the edge is spontaneous, but not conducive to the kinds of freedom of movement he thinks he wants. Dean's smile goes wolfish again and he crawls onto the bed, following Castiel's path until he's hovering over Castiel's quivering body on all fours. He’s looking his fill, too.

Castiel laughs, a little shakily. "Now _you're_ staring," he complains, but his hand comes up to touch the curve of Dean's hip, carefully.

The skin there isn't any different from anywhere else, of course. Why should it be? But Castiel thought that about Dean’s neck, too, and that feels wonderful...

"Shit," Dean curses, and Castiel can see his breathing accelerate. "Okay, I'm scared to ask what you're thinking about."

"I'm thinking," Castiel says carefully, nearly distracted beyond all recognition by the feeling beneath his fingertips. "I'm thinking that I have never found the texture of skin so fascinating." He strokes it softly. "And that I want to explore each and every inch of yours." He meets Dean's heated gaze. "Extensively."

Dean shudders, forehead dropping to touch Castiel's. "That..." his voice cracks. "That sounds fun. Just maybe not tonight?"

"No, no," Castiel tells him, solemn, trying to keep his smile from dancing onto his lips. "Of course not," he pronounces. The smile breaks anyway. "We need our sleep."

Dean nips him on the neck. Hard.

Castiel did not expect his hips to jerk upwards at that.

He definitely didn't expect their penises to brush like that--unclothed.

Dean's eyes snap closed. "Oh, fuck. Okay. So, let me just..." 

Dean lowers his body until they're flush together, and they both make sounds that are part groan and part relief. This is _much_ better. Dean lifts up slightly again. His knuckles drag down the underside of Castiel's penis and _that’s_ like bottled lightning. Castiel doesn't even notice that Dean has arranged them in such a way that when Dean settles back down again, a warm and welcoming weight against Castiel’s front, they can rub together just by moving their hips.

Castiel thinks that the noise he's making is a purr. Or maybe a growl. Or maybe he doesn't care: he has his face buried in Dean's shoulder as they move together, one of his hands clutching against the back of Dean's hip.

It's so much better without clothes on. He can't even be embarrassed about the warm, wet smear he's leaving on Dean's skin.

This time it's Dean who encourages Castiel to lift a leg and wrap it around his hip, and that resettles them both in the best of ways. "Oh. Oh. Dean," Castiel can't help but keen quietly. The moisture they're both dripping, and Castiel only just realizes it _is_ both of them, just makes it slicker and better. 

One hand remains on Castiel’s hip, directing him ever so gently into a sinuous roll. The other forearm braces on the pillow next to Castiel’s ear. He’s surrounded on all sides and it’s delightful.

Dean's breath is hot in his ear and the occasional kisses he pushes into Castiel's neck only heighten the experience. "So good, it's so good Cas, I can't believe... fuck."

The pride that rolls up Castiel's spine is almost as intoxicating as the feel of them touching, stroking. _He's_ the one making Dean sound like that--hoarse and happy, like the antithesis of every nightmare.

Castiel grips tighter, holding on, and gasps when one strong thrust sends them sliding at just the right angle against each other. He knows he's close, but he doesn't want to let go. He doesn't want this to end yet. Pleasure rumbles through Castiel's body, hot and fierce and with each slide of their hips it grows. 

Dean kisses his way down Castiel's jaw and cheek until their lips meet in a wet and sloppy kiss that only fuels the fire between them.

"How close are you?" Dean asks into Castiel’s mouth, when they can tear themselves away from the kiss.

The question is asked with such heat and pride and awe that Castiel almost forgets to answer it. Then their hips roll again, sharp and delicious.

"Soon," Castiel moans. "Soon. I think."

"Fuck," Dean breathes, and Castiel thinks that he's never heard a curse word that sounded more like a prayer. "That's so hot. Goddammit, Cas, you're gonna ruin me."

He's not sure what Dean means by that, but it sounds like a good thing. Everything sounds like a good thing right now. Castiel squirms, the slip and slide on the verge of breathless, overwhelming. He wrestles open eyes he hadn't realized he'd closed. 

In the lights of his little room, Dean's irises are a thin rim of jade around dark pupils. Dean's watching him go to pieces, and likes it.

"Come on sweetheart," Dean encourages him, and the nickname sends a jolt of heady pleasure through Castiel’s already overworked system. "You can do it." He nips at Castiel's jaw briefly before returning to looking into his eyes. "I want you to."

Castiel shudders and something starts to boil over. He cries out, and it's loud. But when he arcs up, his body bucking helplessly as pleasure rolls over him in deep, echoing waves, the weight of Dean on top of him holds him down.

It wasn't like this before. It was never like this before--skin to skin, held together in someone's arms, close. It's a mess, wet and hot, and it's exquisite, Dean's expression slack with delight as he watches Castiel fly apart.

"God, that's amazing," Dean breathes. "You're amazing."

Castiel shudders again, not quite as intense, but still distractingly pleasurable.

"Yeah, that's it," Dean croaks, his hips starting to stutter and roll against Castiel's, hard and fast. "Fuck, that's good. You're good."

Castiel holds Dean tight, petting any bit of skin he can get his fingers on while Dean shivers and shakes and tries to swallow down all of those amazing noises.

It's perfect. It's almost perfect. Next to his head, Dean’s hand clenches tightly into the bedding. "Let me hear you," Castiel pleads, as Dean rubs against him. With the edge taken off, he can see the sweat at Dean's hairline and touch the desperation in the line of his back. "Please, I want to."

Dean, ever-stubborn Dean, muffles his next noise in Castiel's throat, but that just means that Castiel feels it as much as he hears it. He could enjoy this forever, but that would be selfish.

He wants to be selfish. But he wants Dean's pleasure more.

"You can do it," he whispers, an echo, feeling delighted and floating and brave. "I want you to."

It starts as a gasp, then a moan. Castiel uses the leg that's still wrapped around Dean's waist to help Dean rock against him. Dean can't seem to wrench his lips away from Castiel's skin. "Cas, Cas, Cas, Cas," he chants, almost a sob.

"Yes Dean," Castiel encourages. "Yes. I want it."

Dean freezes. His back arches, beautifully.

Castiel holds him through it like Dean held him, and the joy he feels at watching Dean twist and shake in pleasure is indescribable. He has no idea what this is like for anyone else (nor does Castiel particularly care) but he knows that he's blessed to be here. The hot spurts mixing with the wet already smeared over Castiel's groin and stomach should feel messy, he suspects, and they do, but it feels like _them_. 

Dean whimpers a little when Castiel carefully pushes their hips together one last time, and collapses heavily atop him.

The room is quiet, save for their labored breathing. It's a good quiet, though, not the ominous, dark quiet that keeps Castiel awake. Dean is a heavy and pliant weight on top of him, and it's another wonderful part of the whole experience. Castiel's skin still tingles, and Dean seems to be shaking a little as those wonderful big hands pet the closest patches of skin Dean can reach.

Eventually, Dean pushes up just enough to look Castiel in the eye. His smile is tentative, but genuine. "Good?" he asks.

Castiel smiles back, wide and genuine and maybe a little uncontrolled. "Exceptional."

Dean laughs softly, the unfamiliar tentativeness leaving his face, and with their chests pressed together--their legs still entangled--Castiel feels the tremor of it through his whole body. "Nerd," Dean murmurs. It comes with a kiss.

Castiel humphs at him. "I'm only saying it like it is." His whole body feels weighed down--not pulled down, though. Supported, surrounded. He's exhausted, and it feels wonderful.

Dean slides gently off him and the mess on their stomachs is no longer warm or sensual. Castiel is treated to a truly excellent view of Dean as he leans off the bed to grab something off the floor. The something appears to be a t-shirt--Castiel's--and one of their weighted blankets.

"You have more shirts nearby, I don't." Dean says, warmly, a little teasing. "C'mon, don’t look at me like that, I'm exhausted." He gently cleans Castiel's stomach and then his own. "Good enough for now. Right?"

Castiel grumbles, his eyelids already trying to sag, but he doesn't mean it. Dean's smile is bright even through Castiel's eyelashes, and Castiel strongly suspects that Dean, of course, already knows.

He winds a hand around Dean's wrist and tugs. "You're too far," he complains.

It's a ridiculous thing to say.

Dean's smile widening makes it worth it.

Exhaustion, sweet and heavy, instead of dark and bitter, rolls over Castiel. He yawns. Dean follows him onto the bed, chuckling softly. The night doesn't seem like a dark and fathomless empty tunnel. Instead, it's warm and soft, and full of Dean.

They settle in: Dean on his back, like usual, Castiel curled into his side, resting a cheek happily on Dean's bony shoulder.

The blanket settles over them and they sigh. Dean's arm winds around Castiel, and his fingers trace softly down Castiel's spine.

Castiel thinks that nothing in all of humanity could feel better than this. Nothing possibly could--wrapped in wings, embraced in Dean.

Then, just as sleep is about to pull him under, he feels the slightest hint of motion against and beside him. He feels lips pressed to his hairline, a soft brush of smiling breath. 

"G'night, sweetheart," Dean murmurs. "Sweet dreams."

Castiel looks forward to finding more ways he can be wrong.

A few weeks later, Charlie asks Dean how he likes his blanket. Castiel's impressed: Dean doesn't blush.

"It's awesome," Dean says, grinning. His eyes catch Castiel's, and Castiel smiles back. "You're the best."

Castiel’s not sure which one of them Dean’s talking to. He supposes that it doesn’t matter.

Charlie flashes them peace signs out of both hands, triumphantly. "See!” she crows. “And now you, too, know the glory of sleeping squashed!"

Castiel's the one who says, very seriously, "It's really nothing like the reverse cowgirl."

The sound of Sam dropping a mug from across the room is very loud.

 _This_ time, Dean blushes.

Charlie, though?

Charlie just smirks.

Fin.

**Author's Note:**

> All of this started as a random group convo in one of our channels. Isn't that amazing? PB, you are all wonderful.
> 
> If you're so inclined to share in the madness, come join us in the [Profound Bond Discord Server](https://discord.gg/profoundbond)!


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